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vanchlo · 4 years

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The Assistant / Chapter Thirty-Four, “From Afar”

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Sneakyyyyyyyyyyy Peek!

The dark violet paper wills me over to it. It feels silky under my touch as my bottom finds a place on the carpet, leaning against the side of my bed. The envelope opens with a satisfying tear at the seam where his lips hid his words away in the paper, only for my eyes to see. I barely look at the front of the card, because I seek the scrawled words inside that I soon find. But I can’t will my fingers to move any further and after staring at the color for far too long, I walk over to my closet and toss it into the box. I return to the plate of Tiramisu and eat the last few bites, leaving the plate on my nightstand. After tugging on the cord for my lamp, the only light in my room is the artificial of my phone burning my eyes. His words and his name staring back at me as jumbled thoughts and feelings fill me to the brim, almost overflowing

Music Inspo: Boys by Beach Bunny (click to listen)

“I wake up wanting you. I fall asleep wanting you. I watch a magnificent sunrise and can think only of sharing it with you. I glimpse a piece of amber and see your eyes… I’ve caught a disease, and the fever abates only when I’m near you.”

- Karen Marie Moning

He doesn’t see me, and at first, I’m unsure if I even see him. It doesn’t seem real, to be seeing the man whose face has littered my thoughts, awake or sleeping. A smile coats his skin, golden from the London sun. His lips sing with a laugh at something the bearded barista says before taking his card that he holds out. An ivory button-up shirt is rolled up just above his inked biceps, canary yellow sunflowers smattering the fabric. Round brown sunglasses I don’t recognize sit atop his mound of curls, and when I see them from another angle, I drop my head again. The last thing I want is for him to see me here, but I’m glad for being tucked away in a corner. He’d never guess I’d be the type to read, so at least I have that going for me.

My eyes fall shut in pause when I hear his musical laugh, stirring something inside of me. His familiar lilt floats around the room from banter he deals to the barista, and he receives. Slowly, I glance over to him through sheets of my hair. But when I’m not caught within the next minute, the goosebumps rising to my flesh relax. Only a little. Suddenly, my mind falls off the tracks, and I wonder what would even happen if he did spot me. What would be the consequence? Would he act like he didn’t see me? Would he walk over and say hi? Or would he manage with a simple nod, or dare I say it, a smile? For some reason, ice fills my veins and my thoughts grow numb with a particular one.

What if he just stopped caring about me?

The ignored texts, the rushed phone call, and the radio silence since then would contribute to that. Not to mention the new girlfriend, I remind myself. Blinking, a warm wetness meets my cheek and I return my eyes to the pages below me. And most of my attention, because as I hang onto his every last word, I watch the tear collect at my nose before plopping onto the page. An ache grows inside of me as I attempt to read the words, but it’s just not there, anymore. The last thing I want to be doing right now is reading this fictitious book. Instead, I want to be throwing caution to the wind, and walking over to him. I want to throw my arms around him and say a thing or two to him. And do a thing or two to him.

But I can’t.

Because he was never mine, to begin with, and it seems he doesn’t even care anymore. I wish I could stop caring about him as fast as he stopped caring about me, because it eats me up inside not being able to just say hi to him. And all of the wonderful things that would follow, if everything were okay. But they aren’t. It’s just not worth it to try.

He’s in my thoughts, any hour of the day, and sometimes he’s all I can think about. I find a few minutes of reprieve when I wake up in the mornings, ignorance covering me like a warm blanket, but then it all comes rushing back to me in waves. His face. His lips on hers, and their smiles made it all the worse. Her name and everything those letters carry. All of the memories we’ve made the last several months through texts and on sofas at different hospitals. All for nothing, apparently.

I wanted to kick him out of my life to finish the job he started, but I couldn’t. I hovered over the ‘block’ button on Instagram for minutes, but I relented. I knew it would only bring attention to the situation, and so I settled with unfollowing his profile early on. I couldn’t handle seeing another picture of them, and I thought blocking him would make it harder for me to creep on his profile when I felt down, but I couldn’t do it. Unfollowing him didn’t even feel that satisfying, or not as much as I had hoped it would be. I had hoped it would feel like a relief, but it only reminded me of the messiness of the situation, and how much of a nightmare it is.

I wanted to block her too, and I almost did, but at times I couldn’t decide if she hadn’t done anything to hurt me, or if unknowingly she had done everything to hurt me. She did what I couldn’t. She loved him unabashedly and could call him her own. It poured tears down my cheeks night after night, and sometimes in the bathroom at work, or in my car. A song would come on the radio or on my Spotify and with its memories it’d break down the wall I had just rebuilt around myself, sending it tumbling down.

I wanted to block his number too, and to never speak to him again. No matter how much I tried to entertain the thought of hating him, it wasn’t possible. Neither was cutting off communication with him that way, because although I knew it would be immensely painful to keep it open, sometimes I stared at my phone longingly, wishing. I wished he would text me and we could pick up where we had left off. But in the next week and a half, since I’d seen the picture, it didn’t happen, much to my disappointment. I can’t say I was surprised, though.

I wanted more than anything to stop thinking about him, but I couldn’t begin to stop even if I tried.

The number 5 stares back at me, and so does that familiar corner. The water fountain. The skylights pour in squares of sunlight on the marbled flooring. It all haunts me as I stand there, the memories replaying in front of my eyes.

“No, I’m not doing this again,” I mumble under my breath, rounding a corner with a shake of my head. “I’ve done so good taking other routes, this isn’t helping.”

Stomping along the hallway, I finally feel safe when I slip into the mailroom after scanning my keycard. Breathing easy now, I soon find the mailbox for Administration as well as Sophie’s. Dropping the mail into one hand, I hold it there as I walk back into the hallway. No matter how hard I try to avoid that intersection by Courtroom #5 that haunts me, I still feel vulnerable walking these halls. I’m still anxious that I’ll run into him, just like I did that one time. At times, I scream inside of my head at the heavens to let it happen. At others, the mini version of me begs on my knees inside of my head to keep him far away from me.

Because it hasn’t happened, I still don’t know what I would do if we ran into each other. Here, or well, anywhere. London is a huge city, but apparently the universe hates me, and I’ve seen him once already at that stupid coffee shop last week. Well, not apparently hates me, I know the universe hates me, and the reasons why could fill a list half a mile long.

Back to your point? the demon within the four walls of my head says.

Yeah yeah, sorry, I tell it, running a hand through my hair as I begin my walk back. I’m positive the angel is just spectating by now, seeing as Mr. Demon has been a little too talkative lately.

London is so big I feel safer on some days than others running into him. There’s no way I’m returning to that coffee shop, as he seemingly frequents it. Some days when it especially gets to me and thinking about him with her gets me down, I don’t want to go anywhere with the fear of running into him, and maybe even her, and the uncertainty of what that would bring. I hate feeling so trapped, but I’ve grown good at getting used to things I don’t like.

After making a quick stop to use the bathroom, I reach for a paper towel to dry my hands with. The cucumber melon lotion I applied this morning tickles my nose in waves, but this late in the day, I can hardly smell it at times. Sometimes I swear I smell wafts of his buttery vanilla scent on hoodies or on my knit blanket, and I can’t decide if I want to run from it or hide every bit of myself in it. Stepping into the hallway again, the unique smell belonging to the building of tiling and disinfectant surrounds me now.

“Oh come on now!” a voice laughs behind me, on the other side of the hallway.

I almost turn around, surprised at how loud they’re talking, but then my thoughts are yanked away by the one that follows it.

“‘m serious, ‘s a true story! Swear on me bloody law license,” the next voice chuckles, emphasis in his words. Cogs slowly turn inside of my head at the sound of their voice, but I stop myself there and get on the first lift I find, not wanting to find out if it’s him. “How can ya not believe me, I-,” the man’s words stop there as the metal doors meet in the middle.

With my heart hammering in my chest, I exhale a long breath, trying to steady myself. My head falls back to rest on the wall as a whimper leaves my lips. I want to deny it up and down, but every bone inside of me knew that voice was Harry’s. My Harry.

Plopping down onto the plush sofa, I lock my eyes on the television screen as I lay my head on Skye’s lap.

“Hair,” I murmur, reaching a hand back and patting around in the covers until I find hers, and lay it on my head.

“One of those days?” Skye replies, dragging the tips of her fingers along my head as our eyes stay glued on the tv.

“One of those months.”

Or lives.

“I see. Did anything uh, happen?” she prods, trekking lightly as if on eggshells.

“Mmmhmm,” I nod, tears pouring over my words and tying my throat into a knot. “God, why can’t I ever stop fucking crying?” I sob, trying to laugh through the tears, and also the pain. Sometimes it’s easier said than done.

“Hey, it’s okay to cry, Ree,” Skye coos, raking her fingers through my hair until it’s smooth against my head, the locks falling behind me in her lap. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“I saw him the other day, at the that fucking coffee shop I like to go to.”

“Men just ruin everything, don’t they?” she jeers, her words followed with a ‘tsking’ sound.

“Yeah,” I agree without even knowing. “I got off work early and wanted to enjoy myself, and he just walked in the door. Literally.”

“Did anything happen?”

“Yeah, I went up to him and gave him a good smooch on the lips,” I retort sarcastically, turning my head to look at Skye. “No, I just stared at him like a lost puppy and cried into my coffee. Duh, what do you think?”

“Okay, I’m allowing you the one sarcastic bitchy remark, but you don’t get to make anymore.”

I almost laugh, but it’s not quite there. “I wanted to, though, to kiss him or even just to fricken say hi. I realized what little good it would do to say hi knowing everything I do, and how that affects things. So I waited until he left to leave myself, and I swore off going there anymore,” I sigh, getting comfortable again on Skye’s boney lap. Tugging a blanket over my shoulders, I try to understand the episode of Criminal Minds Skye has on.

“I’m sorry, Ree, I can’t imagine that. It’s like putting a lolli’ on a kid’s lunch tray, and telling them they can’t bloody eat it, or suck on it, or lick it, or-.”

“I get the point, Skye, and God, I’m not talking about wanting to suck his dick . . . But he’s the forbidden fruit, alright, and it’s like she’s fucking God or something teasing it at me, ugh.”

“Wow, look at Ms. College Student using that one theology class to good use, or whatever the heck it was called,” she tries to joke, and now she’s two seconds away from getting me to laugh. “You miss him more than you let on, don’t you, Boops?”

“Yeah, more than I can even admit to myself,” I confess with a sad smile, tears blurring my vision.

“Why didn’t you tell me the day this happened? Did you not want to talk about it then?”

“No, I guess not,” I reply, my head moving in her lap. “But then I think I almost ran into him today at work in the halls. It sounded like his voice, but I got on a lift before I could see the bloke’s face. Even though I didn’t lose it as badly as at the coffee shop, I just needed to get it out and talk about it.”

“I understand, and that’s good. You should get it out, Ree, it does no good keeping it all in.”

The knot in my throat grows tighter, letting me only nod my head in answer. Whimpering, a sob breaks from my lips with a huff. I squeeze my eyes shut and let the tears fall with clenched fists, hiding my face away in the blanket.

“It’s okay, let it all out, let it all out,” she hums, playing with my hair with one hand and caressing my back with the other.

“It hurts, Skye, I don’t w-want it to hurt anymore. I don’t want to miss him anymore,” I sob shakily, hiccups racking my chest from the tears. The stupid fucking tears that will never stop, because I know I’ll never stop missing him, no matter how hard I try.

“You could at least try, you know.”

“I am trying,” I argue, turning around and giving him a look.

“Sure you are. Dammit, does 26 feel old, or is it just me?”

“No, I agree. It does feel old. Think about it this way: we’re more closer to being thirty than we are to being twenty,” I counter, rubbing my clammy hands over my jeans as I watch him.

“I don’t want to think about it that way, that’s fucking depressing. I’m 26 and I don’t even have a girlfriend, it’s pathetic,” Robbie groans, bumping shoulders with me on purpose as I walk forward.

“Well, that makes me pathetic, too.”

“What, for not having a girlfriend?” he quips from behind me, the noise of him sucking at ice chips in his drink following.

“No, you idiot, a boyfriend,” I retort, threading three of my fingers into the ball before lining it up for my attack.

“You know, you’d think after going bowling for our birthday every bloody year you’d be a little bit better at it,” he teases, setting down his empty drink on the table with a clud. With a defeated sigh, I watch the mechanical arm whisk away the 6 pins I had left up.

“I never liked bowling, anyways,” I disagree, sticking my tongue out at him.

“No, you just don’t like it today, because you’re in a bitchy mood for some reason.”

“Robbie!” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest, rubbing over the TMNT shirt covering my torso.

“Don’t deny it, Ree,” is all he says as he holds the bowling ball to his face, taking his sweet time aiming. I don’t know why he bothers because after whipping it down the lane, he knocks all of them over. I see one of his famous smirks when he turns around, strutting his stuff over to me. “Do you want to play another round or should we go get pizza?”

“Pizza.”

“Fine, I guess you just want to call it quits because I’m whooping your ass so badly,” he titters, plucking his black Chuck Taylors from the chair beside where I sit, his huff of air disturbing his flat dark chocolate hair.

“Yeah, or wow, did you ever think that maybe it’s just because I’m hungry?”

Robbie only laughs as he takes a seat next to me, toeing off his clownish bowling shoes.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he murmurs next to me quietly, our backs to each other in the spinny seats attached to the 90s decorated table.

“Talk about what?” I huff, sliding my foot into my already laced purple Vans.

“What’s making my sister act like a stranger lately?” Robbie mumbles. I pause and gulp, staring down the polished wooden lanes at the manicured pins awaiting us. His lime-green bowling ball sits beside my highlighter orange one on the little doohickey, both donning numbers I don’t remember until I step foot again in a bowling alley.

“It’s stupid . . and sad,” I reply, indecisively, standing to my feet. Grabbing my purse hanging over the back of the chair, I drape it over my shoulder and across my body.

“Come on, Ree, it’s our birthday,” Robbie insists from his chair, noises signaling that he’s still getting his shoes on. I was always the fastest twin, well in some ways.

“Wow, thanks, Robbie!” I exclaim with a roll of my eyes as I check my phone for messages and the like.

“I didn’t mean it like that, how did you not know I didn’t mean it like that?” he exhales, getting to his feet and walking over to me slowly. God, I always hated how much taller he is than me. I really took the short genes in our family while he clearly lucked out with the tall ones. “I meant that it’s our birthday which is also your birthday. If there’s one day out of the year that you should be happy, besides Christmas because that’s a given, then it should be your birthday. So talk to your big brother about what’s going on.”

Cringing, I try to shake his arm off that has suddenly gone around me as we walk past the shelves of multi-colored bowling balls.

“Hey, Dad never found our certs apparently, so we don’t officially know who’s older. You only get to call yourself that because you’re so fricken tall,” I assert, finally relenting and realizing that the only way I can get away from him is if he moves his arm himself. It’s harder to realize and accept that the other reason is if I tell him what’s wrong.

Eyes downcast, we return our shoes and pay for our bowling before walking down the steps and onto the baking hot asphalt.

“I just want to help, y’know,” Robbie mumbles, sneaking his hand to my hair and giving it a proper messing up. Shaking my head, I groan as he dodges my hand grabbing at him, running through the parked cars until he finds his.

Sliding into the passenger seat, my lips don’t part until we’re driving out of the lot, the sun beating into our eyes.

“Harry got a new girlfriend,” I reveal matter of factly, wringing my hands in my lap.

“Goddammit, that fucker. I’m so sorry, Ree, I know you really liked him,” Robbie curses as he slows down for an upcoming yellow light. “How’d you find out?”

“By seeing a picture of him sucking her face on Instagram,” I sigh, folding my hands together until they fall onto my lap.

“Fuck, that’s awful.”

“Tell me about it . . I guess they’ve been together for like a month or something, all while I was trying to get in touch with him to meet up,” I divulge to him, twiddling my thumbs as I stare out the window.

“God, Ree,” he exhales, reaching his hand over from the steering wheel to take mine in his. I let him and sit there in a comfortable silence until the light turns green, but his hand never leaves mine. “I’d ask if you’re doing okay, but I don’t think I need to,” he murmurs, glancing over to me briefly to shoot me a smile, squeezing my hand.

My head goes from side to side with a ‘no’ as I try to hold the emotions at bay until I get home, even though I know Robbie wouldn’t mind. As cars whiz past us and the sun sits high in the sky, I keep remembering what he said at the bowling alley.

I’m trying to be happy on my special day, but no matter how hard I try, already 26 isn’t looking too hot.

“Can I safely assume Robbie won at bowling today?” Skye questions from her perch at the stove, an unusual one at that. Today, new streaks of green and purple sit in her snow-white hair, bringing images of The Hulk to mind. I see somebody had a little too much time on her hands at the salon today.

“Yep,” I reply, toeing off my shoes by the door. “Ooooo, is that big box for the birthday girl?” the words jump from my lips with excitement at the sight of the rectangular cardboard box sitting on the kitchen island.

Skye hums a quiet confirmation as she faces her sizzling pan, the smell of chicken dancing through the air. Squealing, I almost skip over to the other side of the island, fishing a pair of scissors from the junk drawer.

“I wonder what it could be and who it could be from,” I wonder aloud happily, dragging one of the scissor’s blades down the taped middle. “Oh,” the syllable plummets into the air when my eyes drag over to the return address.

“Yeah,” is all she says as she slowly turns around, waiting for me to say something or do something.

The scissors fall from my hands with a clank to the counter. I gulp, trying to accept the words I see in front of me, but my mind can’t decide if I want to. Or if I should.

“Do you want me to open it?” she mumbles, and after a moment, I silently nod.

“I don’t think I can do it . . . Wait, w-why did Harry get me a birthday present?” I whisper, to myself or to her, I don’t know.

“I don’t know, Ree. I guess he still thinks about you, after all. He even remembered your birthday, and from the postage here, he paid a pretty penny to have it get here on time,” she replies, picking up the scissors to finish the job that I couldn’t. The sound of the ripping tape, and then that of the cardboard occupies my mind as it tries not to spin in twenty different directions. “You can look, it’s just three wrapped presents. A big one, and two little ones. He sent a card, too.”

“He’s really not helping this whole ‘getting over him’ thing,” I mutter, stuffing my hands into the back pockets of my denim shorts, staring at the box.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Skye agrees, giving me a short look before returning to her steaming food on the stove. Almost mechanically, I pad over to the box and pick it up, sure not to spill its contents. “Are you going to open them, then?” she continues, calling past me as I begin down the hall to my bedroom.

“No, I don’t think I can right now, or ever,” I answer her, soon feeling the familiar plush cream carpeting underneath my bare feet.

The heavy box shakes but rebounds once I let it drop onto my bed. Sinking onto the covers beside it, I push back the long side flaps and stare at the address label. Running my fingers over our names and his almost familiar address doesn’t make me feel closer to him like I thought it would, but the three presents wrapped in floral wrapping paper do. They make me want to cry from happiness, and at the same time, they tie my insides into knots. Quickly, I gather the box back into my arms and cross my room, opening the door to my closet. Shoving it on a shelf hastily, I slam the door behind myself, leaning against it to catch my breath.

Why, Harry, why?

What does this mean?

Is this just a friend thing, or what?

You could’ve at least answered my texts, dude, that would have sufficed.

Why do you have to make this all the more harder?

Walking away from the closet door, the paper is smooth under my fingertips, and when I bring it to my nose, I think for a second it smells like him. His sweet woodsy scent - vanilla and cedar. With the vice tightening around my heart, I can only look at his messy cursive on the front for a few seconds before throwing it onto my desk.

Becks - Happy Birthday, it reads and the image is stuck into my head for the rest of the night as if I had ever forgotten his handwriting. Or the way he wrote his name for me. The curly B and the tail on the S, his own quirky touches.

I tried to ignore it amidst my magazines and CDs on my desk as I hunkered down to watch a new movie. But it had been weeks since I last watched FRIENDS, well because of him, and I decided to try again after the movie. To treat myself on my birthday, of all days. I try to immerse myself in Chandler’s sob story with his girlfriend Kathy, and Rachel crushing on a customer. I somehow get through the episode without a hitch and start the next as the sun sets outside my window, cuddling my new FRIENDS tie blanket Skye made me.

Speak of the devil, she soon sneaks into my room with a piece of my leftover cake on a plate, teasing my tastebuds.

“Can I join?” she asks, earning a response from me consisting of pulling back my covers to invite her. “Which one is this?” she questions, cutting a bite of cake and holding it out for me.

“Where Ross meets Emily,” I respond with gritted teeth and a mouth full of cake, narrowing my eyes at the brunette haired character appearing on the screen.

“Oh yeah, I remember now that you don’t like her, you’re a Rachel girl.”

“I don’t know how you could forget,” I almost retort playfully, eyes glued to the tv on a bookshelf across the room from me. Instead of all books though, CDs, a few records, candles, textbooks, piano music books, and framed pictures occupy the cream shelving.

“True. Oh, and here.” Turning my head, I find her holding out another fork of Tiramisu cake to me. I’m distracted when my phone dings, and I search the sheets in pursuit of it.

“Hold on,” I tell her, finally feeling the sleek case it sits in. Bringing it forth from the covers, the bright screen stares back at me, stilling my heart in my chest.

“What is it? Who’s so important that their text trumps Ms. Tiramisu?” Skye laughs heartily, half at the show and half at her own sentence.

“Because apparently this day just keeps getting better and better . . . Harry. Harry texted me,” I tell her sarcastically, but my attempt is weak because my words have been stolen away by him. Once again.

“Holy shit, really?! What does it say?” Skye says, the words rushing from her mouth dotted with cocoa powder from the cake. I don’t have to bother reading it aloud to her, because she’s already reading it over my shoulder. Frankly, I’m too stunned to speak another word, anyways, as I stare at his.

happy birthday becks, the big 26! did u get me package ? how’d ya like the gifts? xx

“What are you going to say?” she almost whispers, her lips inches away from my ear.

“I don’t know what there is to say, or even h-how to speak right now,” I admit, my forehead falling to the support of my palm. “I’m torn between saying ‘Oh so you gave me all these signals that you wanted to date me, and then you went and got another girlfriend. Cool, thanks for the first text in like a month, and the birthday gifts I can’t get myself to open’ or just silence. I’m amazed, happy, upset, frustrated, beaming with joy, and so fucking mad all at the same time.” Exhaling, I put my head in both of my hands and let my phone sit in my lap.

“You don’t have to say anything, Ree. Giving him the cold shoulder back after all he’s done would only be fair.”

“I know, Skye, but part of me still wants to talk to him,” I huff, twirling the blue tassel on the tie blanket laying across our laps. “But what would be the point, right? It’s just like the coffee shop where he’s only a tease, or like a fricken mirage in that episode of Rugrats. In it Tommy and the babies have to cross the hot blacktop to get to the other side of the park where they think there’s more water, only to cross it, and find there isn’t. I feel like if I text him back there’ll be a refreshing drink of water on the other side that I’ve been looking for all along, finally getting him. There isn’t, and him texting me on my birthday doesn’t change that. It’s probably just an obligatory text that people feel like they have to send on birthdays. It doesn’t change the fact that he still has a fucking girlfriend.”

“You can text him back, or you don’t have to. If it hurts too much to have a conversation with him, then don’t. But there’s one thing I think you should know. I don’t know what you’ll do with it, but it’s obvious he still might care about you, hence the gifts and text. I hope that doesn’t make it all just hurt more,” Skye hums, the silverware clinking in her lap when she sets down the plate and fork to comb her fingers through the hair at the back of my neck.

“It makes me unbelievably happy and unbelievably sad all at the same time,” I confess, losing my footing at the word ‘sad’ and trying to recover. Breathing deeply, I catch myself and will the tears away before they get carried away. “I just don’t know if I can text him back with a genuine response, and talk to him for a little bit just to have him not text back eventually. Also, I feel like the fact that I know about her and that goddamn picture will take away any fun I have talking to him.”

“I get that. Well, I think I’ll leave you to think about it with help from this piece of Tiramisu. It looks like you need a little privacy, Boops. Just do what makes you happy, okay?” Skye murmurs. Lost in the darkness behind my eyes, I only feel her departure and hear the sounds accompanying it before the door clicks closed.

Exhaling with a shaky breath, I chance a look at my phone again. The screen is black now of course, and after trying to make it stay that way, soon I fail and his words appear in front of my eyes. The first text of mine he’s answered in a long time, even if I did the same thing to him once or twice over the last month and some more.

happy birthday becks, the big 26! did u get me package ? how’d ya like the gifts? xx

Thanks for thinking of me, they were great!

With confliction, doubt, and exasperation crawling my skin, I slip under my covers and ignore his two worded reply that dings a few minutes later. The last hints of his warm vanilla scent tickle at my nose as I hide under the covers, letting myself feel everything for the first time in a while. I’m lulled to sleep by the sound of his voice running through my head and the same noise that spills tears onto my cheeks, making me glad my birthday is finally over. With the escape of sleep, it steals away the disappointment I hid for not getting to spend it with him like I thought I would be only a month ago.

“So wha’s it like ‘avin’ t’ share yer birthday? Sounds ratha depressin’ if ya ask me.”

“No, it’s not. I mean, I can’t compare it to anything else, like I’ve always just shared a birthday with Robbie. I can get deep and talk about how it’s always just been him and me, so I can’t imagine doing life without him,” I respond, dipping the warm churro into the goopy chocolate sauce. He deals the last of the cards with a soft flicking sound, clearing his throat as he sits back against the pillow.

“Tha’s pretty amazin’ t’ think o’ it that way, though. ‘s so normal fer ya but I couldn’t even imagine havin’ a twin, somebody that looks like you and that ya know so well. I mean I feel that way with me sista but it must be a whole otha level,” Harry comments, feeding the last knob of a churro between his lips, chewing it as he discards two cards to my side of the sofa.

“Yeah, it’s hard to describe, but I don’t mind sharing a birthday with him. It’s always been fun to spend our day together, and our parents were luckily always fair to us with presents and stuff. They even gave us separate parties when we wanted, or our dad did,” I comment, screwing my face up into shapes as I stare at the cards, debating what to throw.

“C’mon already, throw sumthin’, ‘s yer crib so ya give yerself points.”

“I know, chill out!” I giggle, finally plucking the two cards I had my eye on from the beginning, adding them to Harry’s cards. “Okay, Mr. Impatient, get off your phone and cut the deck for me then.”

Harry just sighs with a smile, stuffing his phone away in the pocket of his flowing brown slacks before cutting the deck of cards. I pull the card on top and he replaces the cards, giving me a spot to flip my card over onto. A five of hearts.

“Oooo, everybody’s friend,” I almost chant rather traditionally, remembering when Harry told me it’s because fives are always a good card to get fifteens in this game. I steal another churro from the white bag sat between us, beside the wooden cribbage board.

Harry titters across from me, a sly grin stuck to his lips as he shakes with excitement. I only roll my eyes and wait for him to play first.

“Nine,” he counts aloud, laying the card down in front of his large crisscrossed lap.

“Eighteen for two points,” I chuckle, listening to him cluck his tongue at me as he reaches for the last churro, breaking it in half.

“You an’ yer fookin’ peggin’ fer points, I swear, Becks,” Harry tuts, holding out the other half of the churro that I take with a ‘thank you’, making sure to dip it in the remnants of the chocolate. “But, twenty-seven for six points, anddddd?” he smirks.

“And a go is seven points,” I mutter defeated, watching him pluck his green playing piece and move it seven points ahead of the other one.

“Eight,” I announce, laying down the card and watching his face as he stares at his cards. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips, although he tries to hide his mouth with his cards. I don’t know how he does it - he can carry a phenomenal poker face in the courtroom and any work-related stuff, but he’s the worst when it comes to playing games.

“Fifteen fer two points,” he squeals, slapping down a seven of spades, his fingers dotted with cinnamon sugar moving his green peg. “Can ya rememba what yer favourite birthday was, bug?”

“Twenty, and let me think.”

“Thirty,” he says after a few seconds, his queen of clubs now sitting on the other side of the cribbage board from my cards.

“Thirty-one for two!” I exclaim, eliciting a shake of the head from him as I lay my ace.

“Ten fer a go,” he relents, laying down his last card before moving his peg one pathetic point as I’m out of cards.

“My favourite birthday was when my parents took Robbie and I to see Toy Story 3 in theatres. It was our thirteenth birthday and we were supposed to be growing up, but we got to be little kids still. It just meant a lot to us to get to live in our little kid world for a little while longer. Oh, and of course we went bowling and got pizza like every year.”

“Ah, so Toy Story ‘s yer fav Disney, huh?” Harry pries, wiggling his eyebrows at me.

“Yep, I was in love with Jessie. That song, When She Loved Me, from Toy Story 2 may or may not still make me cry,” I laugh, spreading out my cards in a row in front of me, preparing to count.

“Tha’s pretty great t’ have yer favourite birthday be yer thirteenth one, usually they start t’ go sour befo’ then.”

“Yeah, fourteen wasn’t too great. Mum and Dad divorced shortly before, so it’s odd to think of how happy I was on my thirteenth birthday, just to have it all come crashing down later that year,” I admit, trying to force a laugh, but I can’t find one. It’s forgotten when his hand comes to lay on top of mine, his thumb brushing against my own.

“‘m sorry, Becks. Divorce ‘s a bloody shitshow, ‘specially fer tha kids. Mine split when I was seven, ‘s horrible,” Harry notes aloud, arranging his cards in numerical order in front of him, his eyes staying glued to them. His fingers drift to the buttons of his striped brown and cream button down, fiddling with the first fastened one, sitting just below the hollow of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper in return, my thumb reaching out to clasp one of his fingers between mine. “But in a weird and sad way, I’m glad that we can relate to each other and talk about it together. That whole shared pain theory, huh?”

“Yeah, ‘m glad we can too. Pain blows, but ‘s sumthin’ else when ya have sumbody ya can talk ‘bout it t’. ‘m glad we have eachotha, Becks.”

“Me too, Harry. You’re like a friend I didn’t know I needed. You might even be my best friend,” I acknowledge, watching the way his lips bend with happiness when his sparkling eyes lift to me.

“Yeah, I dunno what I’d do without ya sumtimes.”

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